


Survival

by Defira



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Asunder, Bioware Writing Competition, Gen, Mage, Templar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Bioware Asunder writing competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival

It was not quite a farm, and not quite a village- a small collection of buildings, a small handful of families huddled together against the looming backdrop of the Brecilian forest. They were at least half a week’s ride from Gwaren, far from the main roads, far from civilization. 

Far from help. 

The wind seemed like a living thing out here, bending the grass, hissing through it; the forest itself groaned and creaked with each new gust, the sound so vast and nerve-wracking that one could easily believe that the trees were about to uproot themselves and lurch drunkenly across the plains. It was a wild place, a life eked out against the odds on the boundaries of a land untamed and treacherous. This was an old place, more familiar with the ways of the clans who moved like ghosts along the tree line and who still named old gods in their prayers, or the people who called themselves elvhen and who stared silently as they traded goods, the weight of malevolence too much to bear most days. 

It was a place of magic, wild and unfettered. It was a sanctuary, a haven, a home. It was a hard life they wrought here, away from the eye of the Chantry and their Templar dogs, but it was a free life. 

Tira was the first to notice him: a dark blotch against the horizon, a _human_ shaped blotch against the horizon. She opened her mouth to raise the alarm but the hounds were faster than her; the Mabari lifted their snouts to the sky and howled, a raucous cacophony that had all heads turning towards the disturbance. The Mabari loped out across the grasses and danced in circles around the figure, a young man leaning heavily against a walking staff, his gait awkward and painful to watch. His approach drew shouts from the men, calling for weapons while the women ushered the children inside and out of sight. They clamoured at the windows anyway, a stranger walking their lands so uncommon as to be almost unbelievable. 

He staggered closer; it was apparent even from a distance that there was something wrong with him, an injury or an illness weighing down his steps and causing him to sag against the walking stick more often than not. There were murmurs of concern amongst the inhabitants in the house, even as the men spread out to encircle him and determine the threat he posed. The Mabari continued to growl and bark, winding around him in ever tightening circles as their masters drew closer; there were crossbows pointed at him aplenty, and one or two had begun to discreetly call on their mana, fire and ice forming in their open palms. 

The young man stopped not twenty paces away from the first of the farmhouses, weaving dangerously on his feet as he faced them all. There were four crossbows aimed at him, and three dogs snarling at knee height, and only a fool would miss the hiss of the flames and the crackle of ice from the two men who had chosen to amplify their defences with magic. He was weak, that much was obvious, and the front of his clothing was stained with a dark bloom that could only be old blood. 

When he slumped down, face first into the mud, it wasn’t really much of a surprise. But it made the question of what to do with him a lot harder, because as much as they valued their freedom, none of them were in the business of killing an unarmed man while he lay unconscious on the ground. 

One of the Mabari snuffled at his head, a mop of unruly black curls obscuring most of his face from view. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, not quite a boy and not quite a man. Not so young that he couldn’t have had a wife or sweetheart already, but too young to be wandering this close to The Wilds, injured and alone. 

Crossbows were slowly lowered; the flickering fire and sparkling ice dimmed and died, hands wiped against pants to dispel the last of it. A few faces peered out around doorframes, the women only half-heartedly trying to keep the children indoors. In the end, in unspoken assent, William and Ruan carried him inside while the others set out in the direction he had appeared from to see that he was not being followed. 

*** 

Brayd came back to himself slowly, very much aware of the stabbing pain over his hip where the sword had come so close to impaling him. It was like fire against his skin, accompanied with the bone deep ache within him, and then the distracting chatter of the myriad other wounds and twinges within him all clamouring for his attention, so much so that it hurt simply to breathe and- 

Cool, calming mana flowed through him, and a hand removed the cloth from his forehead, replacing it a moment later with a fresh, cold one. The smaller aches began to fade, soothed away by the careful hand of the mage standing over him and he took a shuddering breath, trying not to choke when his lungs protested. 

“You’re alright now.” The voice was young, soft and delicately feminine, and he risked cracking open an eye; he winced at the burst of light, his vision blurring almost immediately from water that gathered in his eyes. “You’re safe, messere, there’s no need to fret.” 

“If ‘e makes a move on ya, I’ll ‘ave-” 

“He can hardly move, Will, he’s not going to be attacking me.” 

Brayd blinked and tried groggily to follow their conversation. He could make out shapes first, and then colours, and then features. He was indoors, the exposed beams and thatched roof like any other farmhouse across the land, dark now with the onset of night. There was straw beneath him, poking into his back where his shirt had been rucked up around his chest; some sort of rudimentary bed, perhaps? There was a girl standing over him, her hands hovering over his exposed hip as pale blue light spilled from her fingers and onto his skin. Just behind her, _looming_ even though he was leaning against the wall, was a man who could have passed as her brother, even though the scowl on his face was as alarming as her smile was soothing. 

She glanced over her shoulder at the hulking brute. “Fetch him some supper, would you Will? He looks like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks.” 

“And leave you alone with ‘im? Not likely, poppet.” 

The smallest frown flickered over her face. “It’s not like we’re in a different room, Will,” she said, her voice betraying her irritation. Brayd glanced around blearily at her words, noting that they were in the corner of a large room, with no dividing walls to suggest bedrooms or a kitchen or anything, just a stone shell of a building and a fire-pit and a thatched roof. They lived humbly, by the looks of things. “Just find him something to eat, please, or I’ll have wasted this healing for nothing. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” 

Will the Brute scowled, his face almost collapsing in on itself, before he shoved off the wall and stalked away. Beyond the range of his sight- it made him dizzy to lift his head from the rude bed for too long- he could hear him clattering about and muttering to himself. 

The sister was smiling and he let his gaze drift back to her, still somewhat woozy. “Well, stranger, you’ve caused quite a stir around here,” she said, her hands unceasing as they ran over his wound. He could feel the twinges and tweaks in his body slowly easing, and the flesh over his hip sliding back together, knitting blood vessels and muscles and skin back into place as she worked. “And by that I mean they’re all sitting around outside debating who you are and whether to kill you or not.” 

Brayd swallowed around a tongue that seemed as dry and parched as the Blightlands in the far north. “Strange thing to do, healing me if you’re planning on killing me.” 

She laughed, and the sound stirred something in him, something that not even weariness and hunger and fear could dampen. “Well, you’re a mystery, and we can’t rightly untangle a mystery if it lies cold and dead on the floor, now, can we?” 

“Maybe if you cut me open, you can count the rings, like a tree.” Oh Maker have mercy, was he flirting? That was probably the worst idea he’d had in weeks. “So even if I’m dead, you might learn something.” 

“I know you’re a mage.” 

He glanced back at her, assessing carefully. It wasn’t like she was making any effort to hide the fact that she was a mage either, but still, one had to tread carefully. “You do, do you?” 

She nodded. “You were carrying a staff-” 

“It could have just been a walking stick.” 

“- and Papa can tell other mages,” she finished with a smile. “He’s teaching me, but I’ve not got the hang of it yet.” 

The fight went out of him. “Well, fine, yes. I’m a mage. Not that it’s any of your business.” 

She was silent for a time, fingers finding the last of his aches and pains. “How were you injured?” she said finally. “I mean, if you don’t mind saying of course. It would ease people’s minds if they knew what you were doing so far out. We don’t see many people around here, that’s all.” 

“Running,” he said simply. 

“From whom?” she replied, a smile in her voice. 

He sighed, air whooshing from him uneasily. “Templars.” 

The silence that followed that confession was a little more awkward. “Templars?” she said casually. 

“Back in Gwaren,” he said, “so they’re nowhere near you, don’t worry. They were picking on a girl, this street kid with no parents, and I took offense at that.” 

Her eyes landed on his face and he pretended not to notice. “You fought them? And… you lived in the town, even though you’re a mage?” 

“’s what I said,” he mumbled, weary down to his bones. 

She smiled at him, the potential for _something_ kindling in her eyes. “You are very brave to have fought so hard,” she said, reaching over him to adjust the cloth on his brow. “Mama and Papa say that it’s too dangerous in the towns, that we must stay beyond the reach of the Templars.” 

He smiled wearily, eyes drifting closed despite his best efforts to keep them open. “Your parents are brave to have given you this life,” he replied softly, his breathing pained. His hand came to rest over his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric as if something pained him. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. 

He needed a distraction. “You speak better than your brother,” he said, his voice a little raspy and he told himself it was just from weariness. 

She smiled fondly. “Oh, well, that’s because I spend so much of my time with Papa; he was Circle trained, you know, and he wants me to have the best that he had, just without the chains. I don’t have books, which sound wonderful, but I make do.” 

“Your father was from a Circle?” 

“Oh, yes, several of them are. And a few of us have the skill as well, which has worked out well. Everyone has someone else to help them train. It’s safe, and much better than the Circle.” She hesitated for a long moment. “You know, if you tell them you saved a mage girl, they’d let you stay. You could… live here, with us. No Templars.” 

He sighed and turned his face into the pillow. “That might be nice.” 

*** 

It was raining, a steady droning downpour that had him drenched in seconds once he left the safety of the house. Was it some terrible metaphor, he wondered, a reflection on his life? In there he could be warm and dry, well fed and well loved. Out here he was alone, alone and hated. In there, he was happy, if only for a brief moment. Out here, he was cold, in flesh and in spirit. 

But safe. 

He stood in the centre of the yard and tipped his head back, the rain sluicing over his face, running in cold rivers over his skin, down his back until he was shivering. It occurred to him that perhaps it was not just the rain making him shiver, that perhaps the cold was so rooted in his bones, winding around his flesh and even his soul that perhaps he would always shiver, perhaps he would always feel this half-panic, this dread that churned his stomach. 

He walked out into the centre of the yard, turning in a full circle to make sure that the lights were out in all the buildings, and there was no one standing guard. Once satisfied, he lifted his hand into 

the air and sent up a spark, bright red and immune to the rain; it soared up into the air, glowing steadily no matter how high it went. It was like a falling star, sinister and malevolent against the clouds. 

And that simple action ensured his safety, ensured his freedom yet again, even if it felt wretched. 

It only took about ten minutes for them to appear, dark shadows that slithered in from the darkness, making not a sound over the drumming of the rain. He stood numbly, letting the cold seep into him, letting the knowledge that he was _safe_ defend him and soothe him as the screaming started and the Templars began to drag them from their beds and into the yard. 

“Why are you doing this?” The scream tore through the night and straight into him, like glass, like knives, like shards of ice hurled by an angry mage. “You’re one of us! Why are you helping them? You’re like us!” 

“ _I am not like you!_ ” The guilt and the anger spewed out of him, spinning to face the girl being dragged through the mud. “I am _nothing_ like you, do you hear?” 

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and he was spun about; the Knight Captain stood behind him, face twisted with scorn. “That’s quite enough, son,” he said, voice brittle with hate. “Go stand out of the way while we deal with the maleficar.” 

He wanted to yell that they weren’t maleficar, that they were good people, but he didn’t. He stood to the side, and he watched with dead eyes, and pretended not to care. 

Because he was safe. 

And that was worth their freedom.


End file.
